


Give Me My Sin Again

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Future Fic, Half-Sibling Incest, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of past canon abuse, Mentions of past canon rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:58:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: It is a terrible thing to ask.Long ago, Sansa never thought twice before she asked for things: lemoncakes for dessert, a skein of pretty gold thread for her embroidery, roses in the glass garden that took twice as much effort to keep alive in the hostile climate of the North. Small things, to be sure, but she still had never thought not to ask. They’d all had their share of luxuries, Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon and even Jon Snow, but Sansa had never thought them spoiled, or even especially lucky. That was before she knew true good fortune from the utter lack of it. Now she knows that every request comes with a cost, that good fortune is often paid for with bad.But still she cannot help herself. Ramsay still lives in her skin like a tick, like a disease, and the only man she trusts to help rid her of him is her own brother.





	1. Madness Most Discreet

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt: Jon/Sansa, her first time after Ramsay, Jon being the sweetest and gentlest, doing whatever Sansa asks to make sure she's okay.
> 
> First chapter originally posted on tumblr. Title and chapter titles from _Romeo & Juliet_.

It is a terrible thing to ask.

Long ago, Sansa never thought twice before she asked for things: lemoncakes for dessert, a skein of pretty gold thread for her embroidery, roses in the glass garden that took twice as much effort to keep alive in the hostile climate of the North. Small things, to be sure, but she still had never thought not to ask. They’d all had their share of luxuries, Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon and even Jon Snow, but Sansa had never thought them spoiled, or even especially lucky. That was before she knew true good fortune from the utter lack of it. Now she knows that every request comes with a cost, that good fortune is often paid for with bad. 

But still she cannot help herself. Ramsay still lives in her skin like a tick, like a disease, and the only man she trusts to help rid her of him is her own brother.

“Please, Jon,” she’d said to him, her back to the rough-hewn wood of his bed chamber door, her feet bare and cold on the flagstone floor. He’d always been more comfortable with the cold than she, but now he seems not to even notice that his rooms are cold enough that their breath leaves mist hanging in the air between them. Perhaps death is cold enough to make anything else seem warm in contrast.

Sansa,” he says now, after staring at her for long moments, his chest jerking and his eyes wide with shock. Perhaps even disgust. Even being dead can’t prepare someone for his sister asking him to fuck her, after all. “You don’t know what you ask-”

“I know,” she interrupts. “I know more than I ever wanted to. That’s why I need you.” She feels tears welling in her eyes, even though she’d sworn to herself she would never cry over Ramsay again, that she wouldn’t manipulate Jon with tears. It’s only that she never expected to miss Jon half so much as she did while he was gone treating with the Dragon Queen, never expected to pour over his letters as if she were just a girl again and they were missives of love from the handsome knight of her dreams. She’d never expected to feel so lonely in her own home, even lonelier than she had when Ramsay was here. At least then she’d been lonely surrounded by strangers. Now it’s her own little brother and sister who are the strangers, now her dreams are nightmares, and oh, she’s longed for Jon with something like an ache.

He takes a compulsive step towards her at the sight of her tears. His chest is as bare as her feet – she’d woken him from sleep in the middle of the night, torn from her own rest with the worst nightmare yet, and he wears only loose linen trousers – and she begins to cry in earnest at the sight of all his scars, still pink and puckered in places as if he’d gotten them no more than a moon ago rather than past a year. She could nearly laugh at the thought that he’s as scarred outside as she feels inside.

“Sansa, I don’t…” He trails off, his face a mask of concern and anguish. It is ruthless of her, but she steps closer and raises her hands to his bare chest, feeling the ridges of scar tissue under her palms. For all that his rooms are like ice, his skin is warm. Sansa wants to burrow against him, to wrap him around her, to crawl inside him like a fur cloak and let him protect her from everything cold. From the coldness inside her, the coldness she's begun to fear she'll never lose.

“Please, Jon,” she says. Begs. “My body isn’t my own anymore. Ramsay... He..." She breaks off with a shudder, one that she feels echo itself in Jon. She's told him only a bit of what Ramsay did to her, what he made her do, but even a little is more than enough for anyone to know. Sansa inhales deeply, as if she could pull the courage she needs to go on into her lungs like air. 

"I need to be touched by someone who loves me. Please.” She dips her head, resting her brow on his collarbone. She can’t bear to look at him when he turns her away, as she fears he will. For a while, they only stand that way, her hands and head on his chest, his lips resting on her hair while his arms stay at his sides.

Then his arms go about her, slowly, not hesitantly but carefully, and Sansa thinks perhaps he’s been as lonely and lost as she. Perhaps this is something they can ask of each other.

It’s she who finds his mouth with hers, sensing that he’ll hold back, wanting to take her lead. The moment her lips touch his, something crackles between them like the air before a lightning storm, and Sansa realizes she’s been lying to herself. It’s isn’t only that she trusts him; it’s that in some strange manner, she wants him, in a way she never thought she’d want anything or anyone again. There’s fear, yes, and the remembered horror of Ramsay’s touch, but there’s also need and care and love. She loves Jon, not simply as her half-brother, but as something more, something as intangible as the mist that clouds in the air with Jon’s ragged exhale when Sansa pulls away.

“Tell me how to help you,” he says, and Sansa smiles to think that maybe he loves her like that too, and maybe he’s just as surprised and confused by it as she.

“Kiss me again.” It’s another thing to ask of him, but it doesn’t seem so terrible anymore. He kisses her like a sigh, softly, slowly, so gently she could cry. 

It’s something akin to a dance; Sansa knows the steps, she’s made the movements before. But oh, how different it is making them with Jon – making them because she _chooses_ to – than it was with Ramsay. Ramsay’s kisses had been chaste but cruel, the falsely gentle press of his lips on her cheek or brow given only in taunt and mockery. Jon kisses her like he might climb inside her, as if her mouth is the only thing that keeps him tethered to the ground. Not fast, never rough, but swift, intimate, emotional. It’s more than strange to be kissing a brother in such a way, and Sansa thinks Jon must feel the same, but there’s also comfort in it, a sense of rightness. For so long they’d been on their own, each of them, fighting their way back to a home that once, long ago, they couldn’t wait to leave, only to find home in each other. Perhaps it’s only right that they should find this in each other as well, no matter that they should think it wrong.

The dance continues, everything familiar and new at once. His lips are soft, his tongue warm as he kisses her for what seems like ages with his hands cradling her face as if she’s something precious. He kisses her for so long that she begins to think it’s all he means to do, but then she remembers. He’d asked her to tell him how to help her. She’d told him to kiss her and he has, oh, he has. For all her uncertainty earlier, now she has no doubt that he’ll do anything she wishes, anything at all. She has half a notion that she could ask him to lean out the window and snag the moon in one fist, and he’d attempt it for her. It makes her smile against his lips, the soft breath of her laugh curling around his tongue. She feels no fear at what she’s about to ask. It’s not only that she knows she can trust him. It’s that she _needs_ to trust him, or else she’ll be left with nothing.

“Will you touch me, Jon?” 

Jon groans. His hand slides down her cheek and throat to rest at her collarbone. The heat of it burns through her shift.

“Are you sure?” he asks. Were she to say no, she knows he would stop in less than a heartbeat. She’s never experienced anything half so wonderful. It seems bad fortune may sometimes come back around to good.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Touch me, Jon. Please.”


	2. The Sweetest Honey

The laces of her shift dissolve under his fingertips. A new dance begins, still both familiar and foreign. She quivers with anticipation rather than fear when he touches her skin, feels pleasure instead of pain when his palm drags in a slow caress over her breast. Her nipple pebbles in response under his hand, and it’s a strange thing to realize that he is the first man to feel such a thing, though her breasts have been touched – groped, pinched, abused – before. When Sansa gasps, he swallows it with his mouth and kisses her again, his tongue as soft and sweet as his touch.

So their dance goes. Sansa asks and Jon gives, fully and wholly, as if she only asks things he already wanted to do. It’s a heady thought. He has had a woman before, Sansa knows. Does he think of her? Sansa couldn’t think of Ramsay if she tried. All she can do is feel. Jon’s mouth on her breast is a revelation. His hand between her legs is very nearly a cure, the barrier of her smallclothes feeling all at once so thin and not thin enough.

“Jon,” she pants, grappling at his shoulders. “Jon.” She says his name for herself as much as him. He is who she’s chosen. He is what she’s wanted, though it was a desire that at first she couldn’t name, and then wouldn’t. Would she have wanted him like this if it were not for Ramsay? Sansa doesn’t know, and she makes the decision not to care. Not as long as Jon’s fingers are stroking over her gentle and sure, petting her as if she’s a wild animal to be coaxed and tamed.

No, not tamed, she thinks as his fingers work under her small clothes to touch her bare skin, her shift bunching at his wrist. Such a touch from him can only make her wild. It can only set her free.

He touches her with tender ruthlessness, bringing her sensations she’d had no more than unwilling hints of with Ramsay, despite herself, despite her fear and anger and pain, her own body sometimes betraying her as much as so many others had before. She’d hated herself for those brief glimpses of pleasure then. She’d very nearly wanted to die from them. Jon’s fingers moving over her make her forget everything that’s come before. She is a new slate, a cloth yet unstitched. She can almost pretend that everything stretches out fresh and new before her, the life she hoped to live with the man she never thought to love. It’s almost enough to make her weep from the keen, sweet relief of it.

“Sansa,” Jon whispers in her ear, as if he senses her thoughts. He says no more, but somehow Sansa can hear all he leaves unspoken: that she’s safe now. That he’ll never hurt her. That he’ll make her feel as good as she’ll allow and never ask for more. So she answers him with his own name on a sigh, and permits herself the small luxury of touching him. Not the way he touches her – not yet – but the way she dreamed of touching her husband when she was still a girl with a head full of romance and innocence dreaming of what her first bedding might be like. She’d imagined herself stroking a man’s chest, feeling the smooth skin under her fingertips. Ramsay’s chest had been as smooth as what she’d imagined. She’d hated it. Scars embroider Jon’s chest like one of Arya’s old needleworks, haphazard and careless. Though it hurts her heart to think of what was done to him, his patchwork skin feels better to her than the smoothest, softest skin ever could.

When her fingers skim his nipple, he makes a low, rough sound deep in his throat, one that’s at odds with the gentle care of his fingers. Sansa repeats the motion, then again, reveling in the way his body stiffens and his breathing grows labored, even as his hand stays as gentle as ever. That he could be so roused by her touch without becoming rough or demanding is a marvel to her. It’s something she wishes to test.

Carefully, she scrapes her fingernails across one nipple, and then down the center of his belly to dip one fingertip into the hollow of his navel. Something like a whimper wells in the back of his throat, but still his fingers move soft and sweet between her thighs, coaxing her, inviting her, purging her of everything bad, at least for a little while. It takes only a little courage to trail her fingertips over the placket of his breeches where she can feel him hard and ready for her. So hard and so very ready, yet still he makes no move to go further. Still he waits for her.

“I want to come with you inside me,” she hears herself saying. There’s no fear, no doubt. She knows it’s what she truly wants the moment she says it, even though she could ask for a dozen other things. Even though she may yet.

She knows it’s what he wants as well when he sucks in a sharp breath, his teeth closing gently on her earlobe, the length of him hard and hot against her hip. For a moment, she thinks he’ll ask again, _Are you sure?_ , but the words never come. A heady thing, realizing he’s trusting her as much as she is him. Somehow it makes her feel less broken than she thought she might be.

Somehow it makes her brave.


	3. Sudden Joys

She expects him to lead her towards his bed, possibly even to sweep her up into his arms, but he only takes her hand and guides her towards the chair angled in front of the fire, a large leather armchair that once furnished Robb’s room. Fitting that Jon should have it now. Jon sits in the chair, still holding her hand, and waits for her. Once more, he is giving her the choice. It’s nearly as intoxicating as the lingering pleasure from his fingers between her thighs. For the first time, she’s unsure. Ramsay never did such a thing, and Sansa doesn’t know quite what Jon intends. 

“How shall I…?” she asks, her cheeks flaming red. It shames her that she should be so innocent of how lovemaking should be. If Jon weren’t holding her hand, she might turn and run, perhaps hide under the furs as she did when she was a child during thunderstorms.

“It’s alright,” Jon hastens to tell her, his other hand curling around the back of her knee. “Sansa.” She meets his eyes reluctantly. There’s no censure there, or worse, pity, only warmth and a soft sort of sadness. Her whole body aches at it, caught between pleasure and grief. 

“Here,” he says, watching her carefully. His hand drops to the bottom of her shift and slips under it. His fingers are rough, work-worn, and he holds them there, waiting for her again, wanting her permission, only moving his hand again at her nod. Up it slides, taking her shift with it, her smallclothes falling to her feet as he unties them. She steps out of them and he guides her to kneel astride him in the chair, shift pooled around her hips. 

His lips find hers again. Sansa clutches at his shoulders, twists into his touch on her breasts, her belly, her hips, her thighs. When he begins to undo the placket of his breeches, she can feel his knuckles dragging between her legs, teasing her, and with a boldness that surprises her, she writhes against him until he groans and flips his hands to touch her again. 

“Be a good girl and hold still,” he manages on a low laugh. 

“I don’t want to be good anymore,” she breathes, shocked at the unexpected truth of the words, but she stills, waiting as patiently as she can manage for him to free himself from his breeches. The head of his cock brushes and teases the way his knuckles had and Sansa whines. “Now, please,” she whimpers, wanting the part of her life where she knows a man other than Ramsay to begin. “Now.”

He groans as he carefully pushes his cock inside her, slowly, oh so slowly. For a moment, panic flutters inside her chest like a caged bird, but then, as if knowing instinctively that she would need it, Jon kisses her again and finds the knot of nerves between her legs with his fingertips. Pleasure bursts through her, all the keener for how it’s so unaccustomed to her in such a situation. When he’s fully inside her, Jon presses his face to her chest and she can feel him shuddering; from pleasure, reaching for control? Sansa isn’t sure, but it matters little, especially when he begins to move with her.

There’s an odd wrongness to it, but in a way that feels somehow right. Her thoughts linger on what she’d said before, how she no longer wanted to be good. For so much of Sansa’s life, she’d tried so hard to be just that. A good daughter, a good sister (though Arya would very likely say otherwise – it’s a mark of how much they’ve both changed and grown that Sansa can think such a thing with fondness now, rather than bitterness), a good captive, even a good victim, neither forgetting the wrongs done to her nor letting them consume her though they often threatened to, simply a good _girl_. Choosing Jon of all people, wanting him, coupling with him when they are not wed – when he’s her _half-brother_ – none are the acts of a good girl and in a queer way, that’s what makes them feel so right to her. For once, she cares for no opinion but her own. 

Her own and perhaps Jon’s, and he seems to have no objection. His tongue laves the valley between her breasts as he holds her to him with both arms around her back and helps her move over him. His head turns, his nose and mouth brushing searchingly at her breast, akin to a babe at his mother’s teat, until he finds the peak and draws it between his lips. Another thing that should seem wrong but feels only right. She holds his head to her breast, rocks her hips against him, feels herself squeeze tight around him and marvels at how different it is when such a thing comes from pleasure rather than fear and pain.

He’s talking to her when she comes, mostly nonsense words, praise, sweet sounds that curl around her and make her feel safer than she has in years. The shock of him coming inside her pitches her into another peak. Somehow she hadn’t thought to wonder what he would do at his own crisis, but the look on his face tells her this wasn’t what he intended. Now it’s her turn to soothe him, to comfort and protect.

“It’s alright,” she says, holding him as he spends inside her. “It’s alright.”

They hold each other for a long time, which is the newest thing of all. The comfort of it has an uneasy edge, now that everything has settled. Suddenly she remembers when she’d found Jon again, the first time she’d seen him at Castle Black, looking at her like he’d seen a ghost. He’d held her like this then too. He’d been all the family she had. What he is now, she no longer knows.

Eventually he tucks her to the side, pulling her legs together across his lap. Sansa curls against him, as trusting as she once was, more trusting than she ever thought she could be again. She rests her head against his shoulder, his beard a gentle scratching on her forehead, and idly traces her fingers over his scars.

“Now what?” She isn’t asking about _now_ , but she can tell he knows that, somehow, and is as confused as she.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I suppose we’ll figure it out together.”

Sansa smiles to herself, satisfied with that for now. “Yes,” she says softly. “Yes, I suppose we will.”


End file.
